


Gone

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Blood, Gen, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florence is gone. For real this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

All he wants is some fucking peace of mind.

He supposes she must have taken that, too, like she took everything else - that bitch, that - that -

But it's  _Florence…_

She takes everything when she leaves as though to make up for all the times that he took from her, little things that built up over the years (like her dignity) until she'd had enough, like everyone else.

He shudders as he lights the match, watching it burn right down to his fingertips in the dark room - there's no use in turning the lights on, he wants it dark, wants to wallow for a while. There's no Florence to tell him to come out, to drag him back into the light and smile at him, make everything okay.

He doesn't think that Florence is ever coming back. There aren't any matches left.

Hotel bathrooms are not notoriously clean around the edges, or at all, but while he's here (he can't go home without her not without her not without Florence no no no) he may as well embrace the mold. He fumbles in the dim, dying light-

dying like him, dying like them, there is no them-

fumbling with singed and stinging fingertips for the counter, pulling himself up. His eyes in the mirror are eerily bright, blue ice. He's unshaven, hasn't bathed in days. There's no point. Florence usually makes him, but Florence isn't coming back now. He's fucked it up for good this time.

_Good job, fuck you._

He used to think about killing himself, before he met her - used to think he was good for nothing, until she'd done the impossible. Loved him. Like nobody else had ever bothered, ever wanted to. He used to want to kill himself but now he's a coward, got nothing to lose and still he can't do it.

He can bring the razor to his skin, though, can watch his arm in the dark, blind, and pretend he can see the red ooze to the surface in straight lines. (he's going to be sick sick sick and Florence isn't here, isn't here, no no no)

"Self-destructive," they called him, pathetic and selfish and crazy.

He wants to carve the articles into his skin, word for word, razor turned vicious journalist's pen in his hands but he's sloppy and it's warm, it's wet, it's all over his hands, the blade slips and clatters to the floor-

It's dark and he sinks down against the wall, greasy hair in bloody hands and he cries, and bleeds, and hates himself.

Later Walter will be here, a soft knock on the door, a wary look around the corner. He'll pick him up off the bathroom floor and bandage him up, shaking his head. "God, Freddie."

Right now it's some godforsaken time in the morning and he's tired, so fucking tired, and Florence isn't here to guide him to bed. He's not sure if he can find it now, can't do anything without her. Nothing.

_Florence._

Tomorrow it will be bright and everywhere but his eyes, lost in dark circles. But tomorrow is so far away-

not nearly as far as Florence-

and he's so tired, so  _tired_ …


End file.
